


Out of the Frying Pan

by padaleksi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x23, Castiel's trying, Episode Tag, Gen, Sam Has Issues, but at least he's self aware, everyone needs group therapy but they're not getting it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:24:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padaleksi/pseuds/padaleksi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to 11x23. Judging by how much their lives freaking suck, Sam shouldn't be overly surprised when Cas apruptly disappears in a bright flash of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Frying Pan

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at fanfiction net, but I figured it's about time to post something here as well!

The sun’s shining bright again, which, you know, great, that’s – that’s super. Sam would perform a happy dance but, first of all, he’s never been much of a dancer and secondly, he’s nowhere near being even remotely happy. He won’t touch that word with a ten foot pole in like, forever, most likely.

Crowley and Rowena have scurried off to god knows where _(hah),_ doing god knows what _(hah again)._ Perhaps they’re going to try to come up with new plans how to kill each other _(family bonding, he supposes),_ but Sam honestly doesn’t give a damn.

Castiel, on the other hand, sticks to his side like glue. Worried, concerned superglue, that watches him as though he’s hoping to glue Sam back together when the inevitable breakdown comes a-knocking. He follows Sam as he finally moves towards the Impala, putting a hand on the door when Sam tries to get in.

“Maybe I should drive,” Cas suggests gently, trying to pry the keys from Sam’s white-knuckled grip.

“No,” Sam says, feeling strangely disconnected.

“Sam –“

“No,” he repeats and tries to open the door, which kindly doesn’t budge. He belatedly curses stupid, unfair angelic strength.

“I think you’re in shock,” the angel admonishes, still in that oh-so gentle voice that Sam himself always uses on traumatized victims. And well, _yes_ , it’s probably true and driving would be bad, but at the thought of someone _else_ in the driver’s seat…

“If you take one step closer to the driver’s seat I will throw up on you out of spite,” Sam tells him, and judging by the churning of his gut it’s not an empty threat.

Cas purses his lips, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s not the threat of puke that makes him give up the keys. He lets Sam slide into the driver’s seat and then jogs (yes, _jogs_ ) around to the passenger seat, as though he’s afraid Sam will drive off.

Then they just… sit.

Sam thinks _what am I supposed to do now_ , or _I can’t do this_ , or _fuck_ , or maybe he thinks nothing at all. Well. That’s all very comfortably numb – Sam doesn’t want to know what happens when the numbness fades _(he wants to be in a safe place in the company of alcohol when it does)._ He starts the car about as smoothly as he did when Dean taught him how to drive and the Impala splutters and grumbles in protest.

The ride back to the bunker is uneventful.

_(Uneventful as in Sam’s hands start shaking to the point where Cas makes the car stop even though Sam isn’t touching the brake pedal – fucking angelic tricks – and finally bullies Sam into the passenger seat and drives the last bit himself.)_

The angel keeps sending glances his way, opening his mouth as to say something before changing his mind, losing his voice before he even managed to find it. The silence hangs heavy over them, not a trace of the usual ease and comfortable calm, and Sam idly wonders who will be the first to break it.

He’s dully surprised he’s still keeping it together ( _somehow_ ). In the back of his mind he’s already drawing up ways to bring Dean back, methodically listing spells and rituals and deals, and ah fuck, he’s not supposed to do that, hasn’t he learned his lesson, why do they do this every single time –

“Maybe you should smite me,” Sam suggests mildly, but the car swerves on the road anyway.

“What?” Cas barks and forces the car back in its own lane while giving Sam an affronted glare. The glare immediately changes into something dewier and the angel looks like someone just kidnapped both his _and_ Sam’s puppy while kicking Cas in the gut.

“Not as in _I can’t live without my brother I just want it to stop please kill me_ , but more as in _holy fuck I’m probably going to do something stupid and try to bring him back and accidentally sacrifice the moon would you please consider killing me_ ,” Sam informs him with the bitchiest voice he can muster up at the moment.

Castiel’s hands tighten around the wheel and the hunter feels a brief twinge of guilt for bringing this up at all.

“No,” the angel says slowly, a distinct air of finality in the single word. “Because I am… here to keep you from doing something stupid.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve got quite an impressive track record of fucking up.”

Sam is almost proud of the bitchy face Cas makes at him. “I wasn’t referring to that kind of stupid.”

Oh. Sam can feel his lips twitching into a bitter parody of a smile. “Am I on suicide watch?”

Cas doesn’t answer, but he does reach over and give Sam’s shoulder an awkward, comforting squeeze. Sam, in turn, gives him points for trying.

It’s dark when they finally reach the bunker, the newly restored sun off shining on someone else, and Sam’s still feeling numb. Maybe he should be feeling worried _(but oh, right, numb is blocking that)._

He steps out of the car and looks at the bunker, wills himself to open the door and just get it over with _(he just has to get to his room, then he can break down – shit, no, there’s no alcohol there, he’s gotta go to the kitchen first –)_

“We could get a motel for the night,” Cas offers tentatively, because he knows just as well as Sam does how many memories there are down there. They stand frozen for a minute or two before they enter the bunker anyway, Cas hurrying along at his heels. Fight through the pain, the only way through is through, and so on _(wouldn’t dad be proud?)._

“Sam, I’m so sorry,” he begins haltingly as they’re walking down the stairs. “If you want to talk… I’m here if you need anything.”

Thanks, Sam plans on telling him, but now’s not the time _(maybe never),_ he needs to be alone and try to sort out the mess in his head and hole in his soul _(and Jesus, does that sound cheesy),_ and try to _relax_ for only a little while.

On the other hand, actually catching a break has never been easy for the Winchesters, and therefore, Sam shouldn’t be overly surprised when Cas abruptly disappears in a bright flash of light, leaving him alone with a gun pointed at his chest.


End file.
